


a care that makes you burn

by Bamf_babe



Series: In Sheep's Clothing [2]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Dark Jaskier | Dandelion, Depression, Gaslighting, Human Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Spy Jaskier | Dandelion, Suicidal Thoughts, only in like the vaguest sense, this is not a good fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-07
Updated: 2020-07-07
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:20:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25120774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bamf_babe/pseuds/Bamf_babe
Summary: When the door opens, Jaskier looks up and sees Geralt slumped against the door. His eyes light up.“Oh dear heart,” he says, coming over and bringing Geralt into his arms, “I knew you would return. You saw it, didn’t you? The miraculous cure we created?”(Or: Geralt wants to escape, but he has nowhere else to go)
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: In Sheep's Clothing [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1818910
Comments: 11
Kudos: 146





	a care that makes you burn

Geralt can’t sleep. The world is quiet, too quiet, and he can’t hear anything. Every noise, every voice, sounds like it’s coming from underwater or across a room. It’s hard to hear anything people have to say. Still, he tries to listen. He nods gratefully when the innkeeper allows him a night free of charge after seeing his sorry state. 

He would speak, but his voice had sounded entirely too quiet and when he tried to be louder, the people around him took it as shouting. So he kept his mouth shut. 

His hands hurt. 

He didn’t lose them, but they ache all the way down to the bone. It’s a chronic pain that he can’t get rid of and it keeps him awake. Even the process of bending his fingers takes concentration and energy. He will hardly be able to hold a sword let alone write. 

After a sleepless night, Geralt walks into the tavern where the innkeeper is polite but clearly expects him to be on his way. But there is nowhere for Geralt to go. He cannot find his way home to his brothers, not like this. Not when he had brought Jaskier to the Keep, winter after winter, not after they had wed in the courtyard of Kaer Morhen, Vesemir giving his blessing. Geralt can’t go home like, weakened and alone. 

He is getting used to his deafened world, his shaky limbs, and lessened vision. His hands are all but useless, constantly shaking and aching. But he has no ability to work. He can no longer fight, has no horse to carry him from place to place and his hands bar him from even the simplest of manual labor. 

He hasn’t even left Lettenhove yet. The worst part, Geralt knows that Jaskier is waiting for him, in their house just across town. The one they built and furnished together. Where they kept evidence of their time together, mementos from their travels went they weren’t on the road together. 

Geralt knows that he has no other choice. He can’t go to the Keep, he can’t work, and he can’t spend another night in the cold. He has to go home. 

While both of them are rather frugal people, not needing much in the way of extravagance, Jaskier was a viscount. Their house in Lettenhove was the one part of that title Jaskier truly held onto. It was a small mansion, with servants keeping it up for most of the year, but Jaskier and Geralt would often spend their winters here on its vast grounds. 

Geralt makes his way back to the manor, defeated. There are lanterns on the porch offering a warm light. There is snow, falling gently from the sky and Geralt can see the tree from which the key hung in the distance. There is no more cage, no more key but he can imagine the outlines of them still. He curls in on himself, feeling the panic and worry returning. Yet he still walks forward, pushing open the oak door. 

Nothing about their home is changed. The sitting room has comfortable furniture and piles of blankets, collected for Geralt to escape the winter chill. But there, sitting in Geralt’s chair is Jaskier. His hands are covering his face and Geralt can see his body shaking from sobs. 

When the door opens, Jaskier looks up and sees Geralt slumped against the door. His eyes light up.

“Oh dear heart,” he says, coming over and bringing Geralt into his arms, “I knew you would return. You saw it, didn’t you? The miraculous cure we created?”

Geralt wants to push, to scream, to do anything but be held by the same arms that just a few days ago he believed loved him absolutely. But he does nothing. He nods, letting Jaskier take most of his weight. 

Jaskier sets Geralt down onto his chair and pushed the back of his hand against Geralt’s forehead, “Are you still feeling ill? There should not have been too many side-effects.”

“No,” Geralt says, and his voice sounds so small and quiet. 

His husband crouches on the floor and tilts Geralt’s chin up with his forefinger. Their eyes meet and Geralt can see there is a burning curiosity in Jaskier’s, a measure of triumph.

“How does it feel,” he asks, “Don’t you feel better, safer?”

Geralt wants to tell Jaskier the truth, that he feels numb, that he feels as if Jaskier has hollowed out his emotions and heart with a dagger and he burns but instead he says, “I do.”

Jaskier smiles and pats Geralt on the cheek. 

“Wonderful,” he says, “I knew you would return to me.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt says, and he shouldn’t ask for much but his hands’ aches, “My hands...they ache.”

The bard makes a tsking sound and lifts Geralt’s hands, turning them over and noticing the whitened flesh and shaking. 

“Oh Geralt you silly goose, you got yourself all hurt in our simple misunderstanding yesterday. That’s just like you, bold and brash.”

Jaskier stood up and walked around the room, gathering oils, bandages, and soaps. 

Geralt thought to the cage, to the cold, was it all a misunderstanding? Perhaps if he had just listened to Jaskier and agreed with him, he wouldn’t be in this much pain. It hurt too much to think about what Jaskier had done as a betrayal. Jaskier must have thought he was helping, he would never hurt Geralt. 

Jaskier returned and grabbed Geralt’s shoulder, “Here, let’s bring you to the bath.”

Geralt nodded, too numb to disagree and when he stood up the world spun again and he leaned onto Jaskier who smiled.

“It’s alright darling, you are better now.”

He helped Geralt into a bath and began slowly washing his hair, the warm water seeped into Geralt’s hands and they felt better, just for a moment. He closed his eyes and let himself forget, thinks of this as another night on the path, together. 

Then he felt a slice of a knife cutting across his scalp and he startles. 

“What-” he starts but Jaskier silences him with a finger to his lips from behind. 

“I just thought, with your miraculous change, you would want that beastly white hair gone.”

“Oh.”

Geralt doesn’t say anything more but he takes it as an agreement and happily gets to work shearing Geralt like a sheep. His hands begin shaking, worse than before. He remembers how Jaskier use to tell him his hair was spun like moonlight, not beastly. He felt tears at the corners of his eyes. 

But where else could he go? At least Jaskier loved him, no one else would ever love him as much as Jaskier. Here, his husband promised to take care of him. He had food and shelter. Geralt couldn’t complain. 

Jaskier finished and rubbed oil onto his scalp. Geralt felt the air on his head and hated the feeling. 

“This will help your hair grow back faster,” Jaskier whispered, “Aren’t you excited to see how it will grow back? What if it retains texture from childhood or becomes something different altogether? Wouldn’t that be amazing? You’ll tell me, won’t you Geralt.”

“I will Jaskier.”

“Thank you, that means so much to me. Now wait here, I have a surprise for you.”

Jaskier left the room and Geralt simply sat in the cooling water, unable to feel much of anything. Is this what Jaskier wanted him to be? An experiment to observe and love? 

His husband returned with a pile of clothes. He helped Geralt out of the bath and when he was finally dressed Jaskier crooned over him. 

“You look so good in blue,” he said. 

Jaskier had given Geralt a beautiful silk shirt in a light blue matching Jaskier’s eyes and dark brown breeches. The clothing felt strange on his skin, his senses no longer processing the same way as before. These clothes could not be worn on the path, hunting monsters. Theses were for leisure. Geralt tried to summon enjoyment or pleasure but they seemed far away, untouchable. Only the numbness remained. 

“One last thing dear,” his husband began and Geralt felt the cool touch of metal on his neck. It was tight against his neck and he heard a click as the metal clasp closed. He looked in the mirror. It was a choker, the metal was smooth and fit the contours of his neck perfectly. To Geralt, it felt like a collar. 

“It’s silver dear,” Jaskier said, and Geralt could hardly move for how quickly the air left his lungs. 

“Thank you Jaskier,” Geralt said and his husband sighed, leaning into him. He moved in and gave Geralt a kiss on the cheek. 

The next few weeks, Jaskier spoiled Geralt with everything he had ‘ever wanted to give him’. Seemingly, since Geralt was no longer a Witcher he would now have an appreciation for the finer things in life. 

Jaskier read to him plays and poetry. He gave him rich chocolates and delicious smelling oils. 

One night Jaskier was waxing poetically to Geralt about a new philosophy he had heard about and Geralt responded with single words or nods of the head. 

“Oh darling, it moves me so how you can now fully appreciate my words, my art. Before, you would have never listened to me so intently.”

Geralt thought about how before he would critique Jaskier, give him ideas, and he felt free enough to speak his mind when the conversation no longer interested him. Now, he merely waited for it to be over, deciding that agreement was the better part of valor. But this was what Jaskier wanted. 

He wanted a human husband to listen to his stories and nod along. He did not want someone who would challenge him. Geralt couldn’t summon enough emotion to hate this. He spent his days reading quiet books from the vast library and listening to Jaskier talk and talk and talk. 

Every night, Jaskier would have servants prepare them for a rich dinner in the dining hall. There would be pheasants, berries, wine, and honey. Geralt never had much of an appetite. He wasn’t starving himself. He simply wasn’t hungry. He explained this to Jaskier who just laughed. 

“I suppose now that you are human, your appetite is not nearly so large. You must have a delicate constitution. You are adorable Geralt,” Jaskier would say as he patted Geralt’s stomach. 

Last night, Jaskier had run his hands through Geralt’s hair. It was longer now, reaching to his ears. It was curly and glossy. Jaskier treated his hair like it was made of gold. He why tell Geralt how beautiful it looked, how soft, how gorgeous. Jaskier would use all sorts of products on it to make the curls shinier. He would shave Geralt, saying how beautiful he looked clean-shaven, how a beard was a sign of scruffiness they didn’t need in their home. 

Geralt accepted this care. Jaskier never seemed to notice how disinterested Geralt was in his own life. Sometimes Geralt wondered if he was just a fixture now, no longer a real person. If he died, would Jaskier stuff him like a hunted game and place him in the corner of a room. Would he dust his body off and tell him how beautiful he was?

Jaskier had never initiated any sexual contact, likely preferring to simply fawn over Geralt, have him as his personal doll. Sometimes, Jaskier would run his hands over Geralt’s body, telling him how perfect and human he was, how lovely and darling he was. 

Over time, Geralt had lost the muscle mass he had acquired as a Witcher, his human body losing muscle much faster. Without much movement or training to sustain it, his edges had softened. He had lost weight after not eating much and his skin was pale from being indoors constantly. He was still tall but now could almost be described as almost willowy. Certainly, he no longer held the intimidating form he had previously. 

But he did not care. He doesn’t care about much of anything these days. Perhaps if he could have a hobby or leave the manor, it would be better. He couldn’t hold a brush so art and writing were no longer options for him. With his hands, there was very little he could do around the manor itself. He couldn’t even go near the horses. He hoped Jaskier was still taking care of Roach. Geralt had left her in the stable that night. Then he had woken up in a cage and he was so cold. 

That coldness never seemed to go away. It was constant in his hands, causing to ache, twitch, and shake uncontrollably at times. It kept him up at night, in the large bed Jaskier and him shared. Sometimes Geralt would wake up and Jaskier’s arms would be thrown around him, holding him close and Geralt would tense up. He would wait for Jaskier to compliment him and tell him how great he was. 

It hurt, all the compliments. All the praises Jaskier delivered to Geralt hurts. Because it meant that every single fucking one before had been a lie. Every time Jaskier had even an inch of respect for Geralt he was really calling him a monster and waiting for the day in which he could ‘fix’ him. 

Geralt barely talked anymore. When he did, the words felt sticky in his mouth, crawling out against their will. Jaskier liked him this way. He said he was happy that Geralt was still as surly as ever but with an appreciation for all he, Jaskier, loved.

He saw a new side of his husband, parts Jaskier had hidden for 25 years, playing a part to draw Geralt in. The real Jaskier was vainer and prouder. He liked being a wealthy Viscount and regularly told Geralt that now that he was ‘cured’ they would never be among the riff-raff again. He liked leisure, detested traveling, and loved having people of the village asking for favors. 

In short, Jaskier had been playing at being an adventurer, someone who enjoyed traveling and meeting all sorts of beings. In actuality, he was a lord through and through. And Geralt? Well, Geralt was his prize. 

Geralt once asked to leave and go to the village proper and see the market. Jaskier had grown sad, tears forming in his eyes, and said, “Am I not enough for you Geralt?”

He had felt bad immediately and promised Jaskier that no, he was enough. Jaskier was generous and kind. Geralt did not ask again. 

In fact, Geralt did not ask for much of anything. He spent days roaming the halls of the manor like a ghost, pale, thin, and sad with a veil of soft clothes and an armful of books. 

Geralt couldn’t stand to look in the mirror anymore. He looked like the heir to a wealthy lordship. With his brown eyes, perfect brunette curls, clean-shaven face, and fine silk shirts, he hardly recognized himself most days. All the years on the path had been stripped from him completely. He didn’t even the scars to remember his travels. Somehow, they had disappeared during his horrid transformation. The only marks on his body were the white patches of skin left on his hands from the frostbite. Every day, his hands ached and some days he could hardly use them from the pain coursing through every nerve. Still, he persevered. 

Jaskier had taken everything that Geralt had considered his identity and turned him inside out, changing him. Now he was quiet and reserved. He never spoke without being asked a question and he began to wonder if he had ever had any life at all outside these walls. 

Jaskier never once brought up their decades of travel. He never once sang one of the tunes he wrote for the ‘white-wolf’. It became so pronounced, the adventures that remained only in Geralt’s mind, that he began to wonder if they had ever happened at all. Every moment felt meaningless and empty. 

When spring began to appear, melting the snow and causing blooms to grow in the orchard, Jaskier began to notice Geralt’s mood more clearly. 

He invited Geralt out for walks in the garden, read to him, and told him stories of places around the continent. Nothing helps. When Geralt looks at the colors, he can only think of how the colors are dimmed from what he remembers. He is now half blind and half deaf and the world feels as though life was sucked from within it. Still, he pretends, thankful to Jaskier for taking care of him. No one else would ever want to.

Then one night, when spring was creeping slowly into summer, the two of them were sitting by the hearth in the sitting room. 

“You know,” Jaskier said, “I think it’s time Geralt.”

Geralt said nothing, but Jaskier paused as if Geralt had responded before continuing, “We ought to redo out handfasting vows. The winter was a terrible decision, let’s do it in the Summer when life is at its peak. It has a sense of poetry, a sense of rebirth. The dramatic irony is just too grand to pass up.”

“Sounds nice,” Geralt said.

Jaskier kissed him on his forehead, “That, dear heart, is what I love about you now. Before, you never would have grasped the drama of it all as you do now. Oh! This will be the perfect opportunity for me to bring my friends. They’ve been terribly worried you know. Ever since I was assigned to you.”

_ Assigned to you _ . That phrase rang a bell in Geralt’s mind. Jaskier had said it...that night. He had remembered thinking it important at the time, but in the trauma of the event had forgotten it completely. There were others. Jaskier hadn’t acted alone. 

For the first time in a while, Geralt felt an emotion. He felt a pang of fear. Jaskier, however, took no notice of this, talking about decorations and invites. He continued chatting until the hearth burned low and they retired to bed. 

Jaskier leaned over in bed to Geralt that night and breathed onto his neck, hot, and said in a low voice, “Maybe after our handfasting, you will finally show me exactly how human you’ve become.”

He accompanied this with a hard squeeze to Geralt’s ass. Then Jaskier turned away and began to fall asleep. Geralt had not so much as breathed the entire time. He didn’t know why exactly Jaskier and he had not resumed their relationship. Jaskier hadn’t pushed and Geralt certainly hadn’t volunteered. But that unspoken deadline was arriving soon and he knew just as he hadn’t refused the haircut, the clothes, the barriers, and talks, he wouldn’t refuse this either. 

His hands were shaking. 

The days were now filled with flowers and color swatches. Jaskier was ecstatic at their soon-to-be handfasting and was practically bouncing around the manor. He had brought a tailor in to create both of them entirely new outfits in resplendent white and silver for the occasion. 

Jaskier was outfitted in silver with white accents and Geralt in white with silver accents. A perfect pair, Jaskier called them. He said he wanted Geralt’s necklace to match. He almost never took it off. 

Soon, Jaskier’s friends arrived. All of them were overjoyed to meet Geralt, calling a ‘specimen of humanity’ and a ‘true testament to the cause’. He did not know what cause they were referring too. 

The night before the handfasting, Geralt and Jaskier were sleeping in different rooms. Geralt knew he already was unlikely to sleep that night and had already changed into his outfit for tomorrow. 

He looked at the white tunic, the chest was embroidered with silver knots and the high neck hid how sharp his collarbones were. The sleeves were loose, coming to tuck into a pair of silver vambraces. There was a golden belt clenching in his waist tightly. The pants were also simple black breeches and the boots were black as well but with silver laces. It was a fine and expensive outfit. He hated it. 

Geralt’s apathy had been leaving him over the course of the preparations for the handfasting and he was growing angry once more. This didn’t feel like his husband and he was coming to a point where he would rather die in freedom than live in a gilded cage. Perhaps if he died, Jaskier might truly morn him. Perhaps he was just looking for an excuse to die. He thought about it often, death. How different would it truly be from the state he was currently living in? It might be even nicer. Less overwhelming. 

He needed to clear his head. Geralt decided to take a walk around the manor like he had done plenty of times before. 

Just as he was about to round the corner into the sitting room, he heard a voice. 

“Brothers and sisters,” it said, “we convene this meeting of Auxilio, blessed be our purpose.”

“May it heal to you,” a chorus of other voices said back. 

Geralt shrank back against the wall. This must have been the group Jaskier was a part of. He hadn’t ever asked Jaskier for fear of retaliation but he had wondered since the groups of people had arrived. 

He could see into a small sliver of the sitting room without being noticed himself. Through the small area of vision he had, he noticed Jaskier sitting in a corner chair and others from earlier surrounding him. There must have been two dozen people in the room. 

The same voice from earlier spoke up, “We call Brother Jaskier to witness.”

“Thank you Elder,” Jaskier said and moved so he was no longer in Geralt’s eyeline but he could still hear his voice. 

“The transmutation of Geralt of Rivia went perfectly,” he began, his voice soft and playful, “Now I know all of you were rather skeptical when I relayed that I was in love,” a few chuckles went up from the crowd, “in fact, very few believed that Geralt would become a true human and not just a slobbering idiot. I knew different. My husband is better than ever as a human. His emotions show new depths and we live together in domestic bliss. The cure is perfect, better than perfect even.”

Jaskier stopped talking and there was some muttering from among the crowd. 

“With this testament, we can now move forward with our plan. The former Witcher shall be wed to Brother Jaskier and in their union’s blessing we will go forward and take the remaining Witcher Keeps and free them from their curses!”

There was a cheer from the congregation.

“We aid in healing what cannot be known,” the leader said.

“We relieve the suffering of their pain,” the rest parroted. 

“To Aid, AUXILIO!” The man shouted.

“AUXILIO! AUXILIO! AUXILIO!” the crowd was chanting and Geralt couldn’t take anymore. 

He ran, the echoes of the chanting drowning out his mind. He could hardly think, he could hardly breathe. 

Geralt reached a washbasin and promptly vomited into it. His short brown curls were slick with sweat and he was shaking. His hands ached. He could hardly move them for the pain that was coursing through him. 

Perhaps he had accepted his place at Jaskier’s side, cursed to be a shell of who he once was but he couldn’t, wouldn’t allow his brothers and father to be taken in by the same fate. 

He imagined Lambert, bright and charming, deafend and cold, shaking in a silver cell. Eskel was reserved but Geralt was sure his screams would be anything but. And what of Vesemir? Geralt had always seen the man as untouchable but he was sure Auxilio would bring him to his knees as well. 

Could he really stand by while Jaskier destroyed the lives of his family? Geralt had considered himself too broken, too weak to find them. He had thought they would never want a useless human hanging around the keep. But it was no longer simply his well-being on the line. Now, the very souls of his brothers were on the street, begging for his help. He would not be able to stand idly by. 

Geralt did not have many skills left to his name. He could not write, hold a sword, or even fight anymore. All he had was his wits and perseverance. He would have to fight through the fog that his mind had become to save his family. Geralt thought about the suffering he had gone through and made his decision. 

He was leaving Jaskier. Tonight. 

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> This physically hurt me to write. Abby and I came up with this painful, painful idea and here we are. Goddamn. I legit love Geraskier so much but I guess every pairing has to have its dark fic. Well here's ours. 
> 
> Geralt hurts so pretty doesn't he?


End file.
